


all i wanna do is fall in love with you, over & over again

by reindeerjumper



Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Flowers, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Mild Blood, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:26:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reindeerjumper/pseuds/reindeerjumper
Summary: flowers have blossomed across john thornton's skin from the time he was thirteen. smatterings of baby's breath, the occasional hydrangea, a buttercup...he'd always written them down, knowing that somewhere out in the world, his soulmate was waiting.margaret hale had soulmarks on her skin from the second she was born. she'd always assumed her soulmate was a raucous person, based on the inconvenient, obvious placement of the blossoms that would appear on her, like the echinacea that had exploded across her eye.neither of them ever expected to find the other, but here they both are.
Relationships: Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Comments: 73
Kudos: 198





	1. roses

**Author's Note:**

> hi! so, i've never written for the N&S fandom, despite voraciously reading most fic in it. i also have never written a soulmate AU, but i was heavily inspired by @lindmea's amazing cormoran strike fic [growing black irises in the sun](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23410261/chapters/56105047). not sure how many chapters this will end up being (i promised myself i wouldn't post until it was complete, but...yea, that didn't happen) so hopefully you enjoy it enough for my ego to want to finish it ;) 
> 
> title from ["young love"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v566LIz-sbQ) by margaret glaspy.

The blood was roaring in John’s ears. It was almost loud enough to drown out the shouts and cries of the workers in the mill yard. He was watching his own trembling hand reach out towards Margaret, detached from reality as he gently brushed a stray hair from her temple to better assess the damage to her face. Blood, dripping down her porcelain skin like honey on a dipper. 

He didn’t remember much after that--he had shouted back at the rioters, offering himself like a lamb to slaughter, the crowd scattering as the mounted police came clattering into the yard. Once the imminent danger of the angry mob began to dissipate, John bent down and scooped Margaret into his arms, kicking in the front door of his home to bring her safely inside. 

“Mother!” he cried out. Margaret’s dead weight in his arms was causing panic to rise like bile in his throat. “Mother, please hurry!” Somewhere in the depths of the house, he could hear his mother’s footsteps rushing towards him. He brought Margaret’s limp body into the sitting room, laying her on the settee and crouching down next to her, his face only centimeters from hers. 

“John, what’s happened?” his mother’s breathless voice started behind him. 

“Margaret, it’s...it’s Margaret,” he said, his eyes trained on Margaret’s still face. “She was trying to protect me”--a huff of derision from Hannah--”when someone in the crowd threw a rock. It struck her, right here,” he said, his still-quivering hand reaching out to point to where the blood was still wet and bright on her left temple. 

“Here, let me see,” his mother said, placing a grounding hand on his shoulder. Shakily, John stood up, finally turning to look at his mother. What he hadn’t expected was the way the blood in Hannah’s face drained away as she brought her fingertips to her mouth. “Oh, John,” she said. Her voice was sad, choked. He didn’t understand.

“Mother? What is it?”

With a hand as unsteady as his own, Hannah reached out towards John’s face and gently traced the same spot on his temple as Margaret’s wound. Her fingertips were cool against his flushed skin, the familiar pads of her fingers pushing the hair away from his temple as tears welled up in her eyes. 

“Mother?”

“Come with me,” she said softly, her voice broken and sad. She took his hand, giving it a tug, but John resisted.

“Mother, Margaret is injured, we have to call for Dr. Donaldson.”

“We will,” Hannah said, tugging on his hand again. “First you must see.”

At this point, the ruckus he had caused had attracted the attention of the maids. As his mother led him away from Margaret, John looked over his shoulder and said, “Jane, call for Dr. Donaldson. Immediately.” He tried to ignore the wide-eyed look the girl gave him as she silently nodded. 

With a hesitant glance down at Margaret, John reluctantly followed his mother into the main hallway of the house. An umbrella stand stood shoved against the corner of the entryway, the dying sun slatting through the facets of the window. Against the side wall was a large brass mirror, the sun reflecting off its face and nearly blinding John as he followed his mother in. 

“Look,” she said, standing him in front of it. There were still spots in front of his eyes, bits of blue and black floating in nothing. He dug the heel of his hands into both sockets, willing the distraction away. When he brought them down, he could see what his mother was so fixated on. 

On John’s left temple, in the same exact spot as Margaret’s wound, was a vermilion blossom. He wasn’t sure of the genus—carnation? Anemone?—but he knew what it meant. He’d kept tabs on all of the flowers that bloomed across his skin through the years. 

Bright yellow roses across his kneecaps were the first ones to appear. He had been thirteen at the time, undressing himself in the privacy of his small room after working at the drapers. The moment was seared into his memory—the harsh yelp he let out as he scrambled back on the mattress, the alien color of his skin causing tears to spring to his eyes. His mother, hearing his cry, had rushed into the room. He had pointed to his knees, his voice choked as he stuttered and stumbled over his words. 

“Soulmark,” was the term Hannah had used when she finally managed to calm him. “It means that there’s someone out there meant for you.”

John, always rational and curious, had stated, “What do you mean ‘meant for me’?”

“A soulmate,” Hannah had stated. “A person whose soul is bound to yours.” 

“Do I know them?” 

“Perhaps.” John could still remember the warmth of his mother’s hand as she had cupped one of his knobbly knees. “Perhaps not.”

“Do you have a soulmate?” was the next question that had tumbled out of John’s mouth, his eyes still fixed on the curling petals of the roses. It had been quite pretty, but John loathed it. 

“I did,” his mother had replied, a sad smile on her face. She couldn’t tell her son about how the only flower now marring her skin was a shock of garish, bright red celosia across her scalp, hidden by the mass of hair she piled on top of her head everyday. A reminder of her husband’s exit from the world that only she could see, if she should choose. 

“Why is it showing up now?” 

“They only show up when your soulmate is injured, John. There’s a chance that yours may be younger than you—it looks to me like maybe they skinned their knees.” 

From that moment, John made a note of every flower that bloomed across his skin. He wrote them down on a small notepad, hidden beneath his mattress. After the roses, there was a large chunk of time where nothing bloomed. Part of him wondered if his soulmate was gone, unsure of how these things worked, but he assumed that he’d feel the loss in some kind of way. He tried not to give life to the relief he felt when a smattering of lily of the valley blossomed around his pointer finger. 

Throughout the years that followed, John’s secret notebook slowly filled with details of his soulmate’s scrapes and bruises. Once, a buttercup bled across the sole of his foot, the darkest part of the bloom near the arch. Baby’s breath often sprinkled his fingertips, and John could remember fondly smiling at the fact that they were probably injuries from needlepoint gone awry. Sometimes hydrangeas—hues of blue and purple and white—would bloom across his rib cage, the color bright and obtrusive against the stark white of his trunk. Part of him knew that it was probably bruising from a corset. Whether or not he had overheard Fanny complaining about her own bruising was his business. 

Despite all of the documentation and curiosity that John held for his soulmate, the prospect of them actually existing had never actually seemed probable. They were just a specter, haunting his thoughts and possessing his skin. He never thought that he’d ever actually  _ meet _ them.

“Come, John. We must get you out of sight.” 

Too dumbstruck by the sight of the blood red flower on his face and the meaning it bore, John allowed himself to be led up to his chambers.


	2. cotton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the warm reception to this! i should have clarified in the last chapter that the soulmarks show up when their soulmate is injured, and then fade as the injury fades. the only soulmarks that stay are permanent ones :)

Margaret awoke to a room she was unfamiliar with. It was dark paneled, with green drapings framed out in gold thread. She was on a bed, staring up at a white canopy that she didn’t recognize. The pillow smelled like soap and sweat--it was surprisingly comforting. Her temple was throbbing, and as she shifted to get a better look at her surroundings, it felt like her head was going to explode. Unbidden, a groan escaped from her lips.

“You’re awake,” a voice said, and Margaret realized for the first time since waking that she wasn’t alone.

In the window, Mr. Thornton stood with his back to the bed. His silhouette cut an intimidating figure. Margaret’s muzzy head started to slowly put the pieces together that the bed she was currently laid upon could very well be his. With panic in her chest, she scrambled to sit up, and the motion caused Mr. Thornton to look her way, but he quickly turned back towards the window.

“Mr. Thornton? Where am I?” she said, sitting up to swing her legs over the side of the mattress. 

“My chambers. Please, don’t move too quickly. Dr. Donaldson warned us against moving you at all, but I insisted you be brought here.” He paused, and Margaret watched as his body stiffened, his back still to her. “Please, don’t think me a cad. I simply thought that this would be the safest room for you to recover in.” 

“Recover?” Margaret replied. She brought a trembling hand up to the pulsating pain at her temple, and the memory of the angry crowd came rushing back to her. 

“You took quite a blow,” Thornton continued. He still refused to look at her, and Margaret could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “I’m unsure of why you felt the need to put yourself in harm’s way to protect me.”

Margaret couldn’t very well say why she had felt compelled to do so, either. The pull to shield the taciturn, heavy-browed man had been too strong to ignore. Even now, the tug towards him was palpable. As much as she disliked him and his morals, Margaret couldn’t deny the draw she had to him. 

“I’m sorry for offending you, sir,” she said quietly.

Once again, Margaret watched his back stiffen as he said, “Forgive me, Miss Hale. I did not mean any discomfit with my words. I simply meant that it was unnecessary.” 

“Well, I felt like it was my obligation after putting you in harm’s way.” Margaret could feel some of her strength returning, the ability to stand up for herself blossoming anew beneath her breastbone. Perhaps it was the fact that his icy gaze was still facing the window instead of at her. 

“Miss Hale,” Thornton said, turning a hair’s breadth towards her. Part of her wanted to see his face, to have his stern brow and his penetrating gaze looking directly towards her. The other part of her feared it. “I must speak to you.”

“We’re speaking now, sir.”

With the sunlight in the window behind him, Margaret could barely make out the upturn of his lip, but it was there. A smile.

“Something has come to my attention that may very well alter the course of both our lives.”

Here, he stopped, and Margaret felt her brows knit together.

“Sir, if the impropriety of what I did earlier has you concerned, please know that I expect nothing from you. My actions are mine alone, and I do not wish to mar your good name with my carelessness.”

Mr. Thornton turned back towards the window once more, his shoulders deflating as he looked down at his shoes. There were several moments of silence, and Margaret felt her unease growing. 

“Are you aware of the term ‘soulmark,’ Miss Hale?” he finally asked. 

Of course Margaret was familiar with the term. She had been born with a cotton blossom covering the palm of her right hand, the brown and cream colors darkest along her small, fresh fingertips. Her mother brought it up frequently as she grew older, wistfully looking at her only daughter and gushing over the fact that Margaret had a soulmate. Margaret always rolled her eyes at her mother’s mooning--she didn’t like the attention over something she had no control over. 

What Margaret hadn’t told her mother was the meticulous log she kept of all the marks that blossomed across her skin through the years. Written in the pages of her diary, Margaret had noted a multitude of flowers--a long, vibrant hollyhock running the length of her shin, a sleeve of rhododendrons covering her arm from wrist to elbow, a spray of lavender cutting across the soft, fleshy part of her fingers. Some she couldn’t hide, like the echinacea that bloomed around her right eye when she was nine. She had to spend the week indoors, mortified at how obvious and bright the mark was on her face and refusing to let anyone see her until it had finally faded away.

Margaret knew soulmarks well, but she couldn’t understand why Mr. Thornton of all people was asking about something so intimate. She could see the tension slowly settling into his shoulders again, the rigidity of them obvious from across the room. Her palms were sweating, and the pounding in her head wasn’t letting up.

Clearing her throat, she said, “I’m aware of what a soulmark is, Mr. Thornton.”

He relaxed a little at the sound of her voice, and she could hear him let out a long sigh of relief. 

“Have you experienced them?” he said, his voice gravel and velvet all at once. Margaret felt her heart quicken at the inquiry. Soulmarks were not discussed--it was something that most people were fortunate to have, but out of respect for those who didn’t have a soulmate, the topic was rarely brought up. Besides her family, nobody knew of her connection. She kept it private, not wanting to flaunt the fortune of having someone out in the world meant for her. The fact that John Thornton--the man whose views and opinions varied so greatly from her own--was asking such a question raised her hackles. 

“Sir, I don’t see how that’s really any of your business,” Margaret said softly. 

Still looking out the window, John stiffened again. His hands were clasped behind his back, and Margaret could see the white of his knuckles from her spot on his bed.

“Miss Hale, please. I only ask you to answer the question.”

Margaret’s head was pounding at this point, and she brought gentle fingertips up to the bandages that had been placed there. Her eyes were still trained on Mr. Thornton, but the sun filtering in from the window was exacerbating her headache. She wanted to go home, to the warmth and comfort of her own bed. 

“Mr. Thornton,” she said softly. “Please, I beg of you. Please allow me to go back to my home.”

Thornton turned at this request, but not fully. Margaret could see the strong outline of his profile against the window, and she tried to ignore the butterflies it caused to erupt in her stomach.

“Are you unwell?” he asked, genuine concern lacing his voice.

“My head--it is pounding. I wish to go home and tend to it. Please.”

“Dr. Donaldson said that may happen. Is there anything I can do to ease the affliction?”

Margaret noted the softness of his voice, the almost indiscernible furrow of his brow. He was genuinely concerned about her well-being, and it made Margaret soften. 

“The sunlight, it’s making my head feel worse.” She weighed the options in front of her before continuing. “I will answer your questions if you step away from the window, sir. I cannot focus on the discussion with the light.” For effect, she lifted her hand to shield her eyes, trying to discern Thornton’s reaction. 

“I-I cannot,” he stammered, turning back towards the window. “Please, forgive me.”

Seeing John Thornton unsure was disconcerting. The invisible tug that she felt towards him seemed to tether her to the bed, and she sighed. 

“I see,” she said. “Can you draw the curtains then? I wish to know why you are so curious about something so intimate, but I truly cannot discuss this with you with the headache I am experiencing.” 

Thornton conceded, lifting his long arms to pull the drapes shut with one fluid motion. He still refused to face her, and Margaret felt the flare of annoyance in her chest once more. 

“Thank you,” she muttered, taking reprieve in the now darkened room. “Now, I must ask  _ you.  _ Why are you so curious about my experience with soulmarks? I’ve never seen them discussed in such a flippant way, and I’ve always been taught that they are not to be brought up, especially between acquaintances.”

Thornton huffed a laugh, empty of any amusement. 

“Is that all we are, Miss Hale? Acquaintances?”

“Do you consider us differently?”

He paused, his back still turned to her. “I don’t know what I consider us,” he said quietly, leaning against the window frame.

“As I have stated, Mr. Thornton, if my earlier actions have caused your reputation any harm, I will take full responsibility for them. I was only doing what I thought was best at the time. In hindsight, I see how suggestive my actions were.”

Thornton shook his head, ignoring Margaret’s statement. “I only ask about soulmarks, Miss Hale, because something has come to my attention that I think you would find most informative.”

“Yes, you’ve said,” Margaret replied. She wasn’t sure if her injury was causing her confusion or if he was talking circles around her. “Mr. Thornton, please. Just state what it is that you need me to know. I am feeling most unwell and would like to go home.”

Snapping out of his reverie, John glanced back in her direction. “I’m sorry, Miss Hale. I didn’t mean to make you suffer.” He took a steadying breath. “Please, answer my initial question--have you ever experienced a soulmark?”

Against her better judgement, Margaret decided to answer. Her pounding head and the impropriety of being in Mr. Thornton’s chambers was starting to wear on her, and all she wanted to do was leave and go home.

“I have,” she said resolutely. 

Thornton nodded.

“I had a feeling you might have,” he said, once again turning his head slightly in her direction. 

“And you?” Margaret replied, indignation welling in her chest. 

“I have,” he answered. “Miss Hale, have you ever received a soulmark on your right arm? From about your wrist to your elbow?”

Margaret stilled, immediately recalling the rhododendrons that had covered her entire forearm. She had been fifteen at the time, excited about a party that her aunt was throwing. When the flowers had bloomed across her skin, Margaret had to feign illness as a way to avoid the festivities. The dress she had chosen for the night had been low-cut and short-sleeved, not allowing her any coverage. She remembered the disappointment and anger she had felt in sharp relief. 

“Miss Hale?” Mr. Thornton continued. Her silence had been deafening as she processed the question he had asked her, and it was obvious that he was getting worried.

Margaret cleared her throat. “How could you possibly have known that?” she said, pushing herself to stand up. 

“And at some point, did you injure the underside of your left foot? Perhaps a puncture to the arch?”

Margaret’s mouth went dry. She had been seven, rollicking through the fields behind their house in Helstone. Her and Frederick had kicked off their shoes and stockings, enjoying the sensation of the sun-warmed grass beneath their feet. She hadn’t seen the wooden beam that had fallen from the rickety fence, and in her ambling, she had stepped directly on a nail that had been protruding from the wood. The pain and bleeding that had come from it was something that still made her shiver.

“Mr. Thornton, please explain yourself at once,” she said. It was becoming evidently clear that he possibly knew her soulmate. Margaret didn’t appreciate the way he was withholding the information that she so dearly wanted, after so many years of marred skin and curious wonderings. 

“I don’t wish to alarm you,” he said, his voice low and barely audible. “I only wish to bring you some awareness.”

“I do not understand,” she said, taking a step towards him. His back was still towards her, a sliver of sun peeking out from between the curtains. “Do you mean to tell me that you know who my soulmate is?”

“Aye,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I do.”

“Sir, I do not appreciate you keeping their identity from me. I have spent many years wondering who could possibly be linked to me, and to taunt me with this information is most cruel!”

“I think we all wonder who we’re linked to,” Mr. Thornton muttered. “How can we not?”

Without meaning to, Margaret had managed to close the space between them. She was just an arm’s length from him, and she could smell the same soap on him that she had smelled on his pillow. The scent smelled warmer, though, as if his body had managed to alter the very molecules that made it up. She found it intoxicating. 

“Mr. Thornton, please explain yourself. Please, I beg of you.” 

At this, Mr. Thornton finally turned towards Margaret. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked into the ice blue of his eyes. For once they didn’t look angry or calculating. Instead, they were soft, almost sad. She searched his face, desperately looking for the answer that she sought. His mouth was slightly downturned, but his eyes never left hers. He started to speak, but was cut short when Margaret finally noticed what she had been looking for.

Along his left temple, against the raven black of his hair, was a bright red anemone. It looked vibrant and blinding against the paleness of his skin, the color his hair a stark contrast to the petals.

It looked, she assumed, exactly how her own injury looked. 


	3. celosia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy mother's day to all the mamas out there! today's chapter is hannah-centric, since she's my girl. we stan a victorian boss queen. the angst is aplenty in this one, and probably the next, but what's north and south without a little suffering? ;) enjoy!

Alone in his chambers, John leaned a hand against the window frame, looking down on the gray square of yard below him. 

John wasn’t exactly sure what he had expected from Margaret when she realized their connection. Part of him had wondered if she’d faint. The idiotic part of him wondered if she’d fall into his arms, overjoyed at the fact that they’d finally found each other. 

What he hadn’t expected, was the abrupt exit she made.

The realization of what marred his skin had caused Margaret’s eyes to widen almost comically, her mouth going slack. John had tried to explain, to calm her, but the color left her face too quickly for him to properly come up with the words. The only emotion he saw on her face was disbelief, and it had made his chest hurt.

“Margaret,” he had whispered, desperate for any semblance of happiness on her face. 

“Sir, we are acquaintances,” she had chided him, taking a step back.

“Miss Hale,” he had corrected, feeling the color rise on his cheeks. “Please. Speak to me.”

“I must go,” she had said. He watched in disbelief as she had picked up her skirts, turned from him, and made for the door. “Please, do not follow me.” With the soft snick of the knob, she had disappeared behind the door, leaving John alone in the room.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since her exit, but as he looked out the window now, he could see the lamplighters making their way through Milton. He watched detachedly as the lamps slowly lit up the darkening town, small capsules of firelight cutting through the settling black. 

A soft knock sounded behind him, and for half a second he hoped it was Margaret. Instead, as the door creaked open, he heard his mother’s voice. 

“John?” she asked softly, stepping into the room. “Where’s Miss Hale?”

John’s pride got the better of him—at least the shame of her refusal wasn’t known to the house. She must have slipped out unseen. 

“She left,” he said. 

“Left? When?”

“I’m not sure. Hours ago?” He looked once more out the window, the throb of the lamps across town pulsing into the darkness. 

He could sense his mother’s hesitation. He wasn’t sure he could face her just yet. The reassuring weight of her hand settled onto his shoulder, and John couldn’t help but cover it with his own. 

“Were we mistaken?” Hannah asked softly. The use of “we” instead of “you” wasn’t lost on him. John could feel her squeeze his shoulder. She could be tough and taciturn, much like him, but Hannah Thornton was always loyal. 

“I don’t believe we were wrong, no.” He paused here, turning to look into Hannah’s eyes. He saw sadness and concern framing the blue irises. “I just believe that she refuses me.”

At this, Hannah’s fierce loyalty flared. John could see the heat rise in her face as her jaw set. 

“Refuse you?” she said, her eyes flashing. “Who is she to refuse the likes of you?”

“Mother, I-”

“No, John. I don’t want to hear it. I know you’ve feelings for her. I can see it in your face whenever she walks into a room, even before all of this happened. A mother knows these things, John. I can’t say I approved of it at first, but then when I saw that mark on your face, I decided against my better judgment and bit my tongue. But now? Oh, no. I will hold my opinions no longer. You are far too good for a preacher’s daughter!”

John hadn’t even admitted to himself that his feelings for Miss Hale were growing at an exponential rate. If his heart wasn’t in the pit of his stomach, he’d have a better chance of rationalizing everything to his mother, but that didn’t seem possible. All his life, John hadn’t known what to expect when he found his soulmate. He didn’t know if they would just instantly fall in love, or if some terrible circumstances would befall one of them and leave the other wandering through life alone. He had always assumed that he’d be the one to wander--luck was never close by to John Thornton, only hardship. It looked like he might’ve been right.

“Mother, please,” he started, dragging a hand down his face. “I haven’t had time to even think about what’s just happened. I had always assumed that…” Here he trailed off.

“Assumed what?” she replied sharply. 

“I don’t know...I always assumed that I wouldn’t even  _ find _ my soulmate. But to find them  _ and _ be in...be in love?” He shook his head, overcome with the reality of what had happened. 

Hannah softened at her son’s words, and took a step towards him. She cradled his face between her palms, forcing him to look at her. 

“John,” she said softly, sweeping a thumb across the sharp edge of his cheek, “you are a man held in the highest regard. You are a profitable mill master, a provider for this family. You have a generous heart and a rational mind. You’d give the shirt off your back to someone if they truly needed it, and if that girl can’t see that about you, then she doesn’t deserve you in the first place. Sometimes the world gets it wrong, John--she isn’t the end of your happiness. There are many a girl out there who would jump at the chance to court Master Thornton.” 

He smiled sadly at her statement, covering her hand with his own and holding it closely to his cheek. 

“I didn’t think it was possible to get it wrong,” he replied, looking down. “I always thought that I’d at least...have my soulmate to lean on. Maybe not in a romantic sense, but to confide in and commiserate with. Someone who understood my struggles and whose struggles I understood.”

“You don’t need a soulmate for that, John. You have me. We’ve gotten through worse, and we’ll get through this. Pick ourselves up by the bootstraps and shove on.”

John just nodded, no longer wanting to discuss what had happened. It was true what his mother was saying to him--they had always had each other when things became unbearable, but this was vastly different. Never before had it felt like John’s heart had been ripped out and trampled on. He was already dreading the next blossom that would bloom across his skin, sick at the thought of something hurting Margaret, but not having the chance to go to her and protect her.

“You’re right, Mother,” he simply replied. “Shove on, we will.”


	4. lilies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some wisdom from mrs. hale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a huge thank you to @lindmea for listening to me ramble on and on about this fic! she's been an amazing sounding board for me & has been a great cheerleader. i'm so glad you're enjoying this. no interaction between the two in this chapter, but the next will be worth it.

Margaret was able to quietly sneak back into her home unnoticed. The entire way back from Marlborough Mill, her heart had been pounding out of her chest, the blood echoing through her veins and making her already sore head throb. 

As she crept up the stairs to her bedroom, silently thanking God that nobody had been on the main floor of the house, she heard a feeble call from her mother’s chambers.

“Margaret? Is that you?” 

Margaret closed her eyes, knowing that she couldn’t ignore her mother, especially in the state that she was in. Taking a steadying breath, she nudged open the door to her mother’s room and peeked inside.

“Yes, Mama?” she said.

“Why are you hiding in the doorway like a child who was just scolded?” Mrs. Hale said with a fond smile. “Come in, please.”

Margaret pushed the door open fully and stepped into her mother’s chambers. A fire was roaring in the hearth, and despite the stifling heat it was giving off, her mother was bundled up to her chin, sitting up in a rocking chair right next to the fireplace. Mrs. Hale looked at her daughter, her visage calm and soft, until her eyes fell upon the bandage at Margaret’s temple.

“Margaret!” she gasped, sitting up straighter in her chair. “What happened?”

Sheepishly, Margaret looked towards the floor, her hat still clasped between her hands in front of her. 

“I promise I am fine, Mama,” she said, still not making eye contact.

“Thank heavens!” Mrs. Hale breathed. “That still doesn’t explain what happened, though, dear girl. What befell you?”

Margaret finally looked up and crossed the room to where her mother sat. She placed her hat on her mother’s bed, then perched herself on the footstool that sat next to the chair. Being in this close of proximity to her mother made something roll through Margaret’s chest--something that hurt and tightened at the same time, coiling up behind her breastbone like a violin string. 

Before the words of what happened could fall from her lips, Margaret leaned forward and laid her head on her mother’s lap. A sob lurched out of her chest, and she felt her mother’s hand gently stroke the hair from her face. 

“My darling girl, what is the matter?”

Without lifting her head from her mother’s lap, Margaret sniffed, willing herself to stop crying. She swallowed a sob and brought a trembling hand up to her face to wipe a tear away. The reality of her conversation with Mr. Thornton was slowly sinking in, and she felt like she was plunging off a cliff. 

“Margaret, look at me,” her mother said, placing her fingertips beneath Margaret’s chin. Margaret allowed the movement to happen, slowly lifting her face to look into her mother’s eyes. Mrs. Hale looked down at her daughter and Margaret found herself wondering when she had gotten so old.

“Mama,” Margaret started, twisting her fingers into the fabric of her mother’s skirts, “how did you know Father was your soulmate?”

Something shifted in Mrs. Hale’s face at the inquiry. Her gaze became distant, and she slowly turned towards the window that she sat next to. 

“I never was truly certain,” she said, and Margaret felt her mouth go dry. 

“Are you certain now?” Margaret asked. The breath in her lungs seemed to be trapped.

The distance in her mother’s eyes returned. Something about her mother’s countenance and posture was making Margaret uncomfortable, as if some cataclysmic shift was taking place and she didn’t have a strong enough footing to withstand it.

“Margaret, may I be frank with you?” 

“Of course, Mama.”

“I am not certain who my soulmate is.” 

The air in the room seemed to still as Margaret looked at her mother. The far-off look was still on Maria Hale’s face, but the grip that she had on Margaret’s hand had doubled in strength. It was obvious that she had never uttered these words aloud before, but it was such a scandalous statement to make that Margaret was sure she had thought about it often.

“What do you mean, Mama?”

“I  _ thought _ your father was my soulmate. The very first flower to appear on my skin was a white lily. It blossomed across my hand”--she lifted her right hand to show Margaret, tracing the path of the flower that had once appeared with her fingertips--”on part of my palm, and then it curled around my finger here, and touched just the edge of the top of my hand. When it had bloomed, I was only five or six, and I remember my mother making such a fuss about it. Lilies aren’t very well-connected to people that are in my family’s position--they usually indicate someone in religion, or a maternal figure. The sheer thought of my soulmate being a woman was enough to send my mother into a frenzy, so I decided that my soulmate must be a preacher of some kind.

“When I first laid eyes on your father, I was very drawn to him. He was smart, and passionate about his path in life. Most people I had come into contact with didn’t have to fight for anything...it was given to them as their birthright. Your father had to work for what he wanted, and the idea of that thrilled me. In hindsight, I think I did whatever I could to convince myself that he was my soulmate. Clergymen don’t have many reasons to injure themselves, you see. I didn’t have many flowers bloom during our courtship, and the ones that I did have bloom were out of sight. Most were hidden under sleeves, or under a pair of gloves.

“I also don’t think it’s any surprise how aloof your father is. I daren’t bring up the prospect of us being soulmates. I never outright asked him, I always just assumed. We were married, I was happy, and that seemed to be enough. As the years went on, though, I started to realize how hollow I felt around him. It wasn’t the spark I had anticipated from a soulmate. I had always assumed I’d feel cared for, adored on a level that no one else could match. Even just spending time with one another seemed bothersome. It wasn’t enjoyable. I started pricking my fingers with needles during my cross stitch, just to see if a flower would bloom on his hands. They never did. I was still receiving flowers, though.”

Margaret watched her mother closely, hanging on every word that came from her mouth. She couldn’t deny her mother the fact that her parents didn’t seem a likely match. Richard Hale rarely showed any outward forms of affection for his wife that weren’t expected of him, and it was clear that he hadn’t even considered her feelings in making the detrimental move to Milton. 

“Mama?” Margaret started softly. Her mother blinked, her eyes refocusing and settling on her daughter. 

“Yes?” 

“Do you know if you’ve ever found your soulmate?”

At this, a soft, fond smile crossed Maria Hale’s features. 

“I believe I have, yes. I’m not certain, of course, for one doesn’t just ask these things. But yes, I believe I’ve found that happiness I was looking for. It’s funny, Margaret...in my own experience, the person who is your soulmate is someone you wouldn’t expect. But the signs are all there.”

Margaret thought about her mother’s statement for a moment, preparing to tell her everything that had happened at Marlborough Mills, but she was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Maria Hale said.

Dixon crossed the threshold, her hands clasped in front of her apron as she worriedly looked at Maria. “Ma’am? Just wanted to check on you, make sure there wasn’t anything you needed.”

It was just a flash, but Margaret didn’t miss the same fond smile cross her mother’s face.

“No, Dixon. Just stay and keep me company.”

Margaret took her mother’s lead, standing up and pressing a kiss to Maria’s forehead. She glanced back at Dixon, who was watching the scene with tears in her eyes.

“Thank you, Mama,” Margaret said. “Enjoy your time with Dixon.”

“I always do,” Mrs. Hale responded, before closing her eyes.


	5. bouquets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> margaret revisits the mill to discuss her situation with mr. thornton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huzzah! a new chapter! sorry it's taken me a while to get this one out--it's a bit of a doozy with lots of fluff & emotion & scandalous hand-holding. i hope you enjoy it!

It had been a week since John had seen Margaret.

With every day that had passed, John felt his anxieties rattle around inside of him like a fly caught in a glass jar. The first day after their fateful discussion, John found himself glancing out of the windows, hoping to see Miss Hale coming up the mill yard. The next day, he had spent less time looking and more time wishing. By the fifth day, the flower at his temple had faded to almost nothing, so he had fully inserted himself back into his position as mill master--the riot had brought nothing sour about, which meant that John could acclimate the Irish workers without any backlash. 

The ache inside his chest didn’t go away, though.

At night, he would lie in his bed, a dying candle flickering across the pages of his well-worn notes. When things got quiet and distractions went away, John found himself consumed with the idea that Margaret was his soulmate. The yellow roses, the buttercup, the hydrangeas...he remembered each one so vividly, and now that he knew who his heart was tethered to, he wanted to know the reason for each one. He was sure she wondered the same--it was in her nature to inquire and question, and he mourned the loss of being able to tell her.

John hadn’t realized it until the truth about their bond came out...he had fallen in love with her. Slowly, surely, like watching a tree grow...one day it’s small and ignorable, the next day you’re amazed at how much it has blossomed when you weren’t looking. He never thought about love until Margaret came into his life. 

A week after she left, things started to fall back into place, and John begrudgingly decided to move on with his life. It wasn’t an easy concept or something that he was willing to do, but it was necessary. If Margaret Hale wouldn’t have him, then he would have no one.

As usual, though, Margaret managed to turn him on his head.

The following Friday, sun was shining through the clouds as he crossed the mill yard, and he allowed himself to indulge in the warmth that it spread across his shoulders. Sun like this was a rarity in Milton, and he had an almost feline-like response to it. He rolled his shoulders, fighting off the urge to stretch in the sunlight and plop down on a bench to enjoy it.

Tilting his face up to the rays, John closed his eyes and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. Around him he could hear the bustle of the mill yard, the Irish brogue of his workers sounding foreign against the whir of the machines from the warehouse. He knew he probably looked like he lost his mind, standing amidst the chaos to partake in such a menial indulgence, but for once he didn’t care. 

As the sun soaked through his clothes and kissed his skin, John thought about Margaret. He wondered if the sun was touching her face, her hair, her decolletage. Was she indulging the way he was? He imagined her head tilted up towards the sun, just the way his was. He wondered if she freckled in the sun, if her perfectly creamy skin betrayed the same enjoyment he currently felt.

His thoughts were interrupted when one of his workers spoke.

“Master Thornton?”

John opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh light of the yard. A young man stood in front of him, his cap held in his hands as he looked up at John. 

“Yes?” John said, fidgeting with the hem of his coat.

“There’s someone waiting for you in your office, sir. A lady. Said she needed to speak to you.”

John’s breath caught in his throat, but he daren’t hope that the lady in question was Margaret. It was probably a local woman, looking for work for herself and most likely her child. The disappointment of his realization sat heavy on his chest, but he refused to ruminate in the feeling. Instead, he adjusted his cuffs, nodded at the young man, and turned towards his offices.

As he mounted the staircase, John felt a sensation in his stomach that could only be described as butterflies. It was a stupid sensation, one that he didn’t remotely enjoy, but it was there nonetheless. He could see the door to his office was open, light spilling down the dusty staircase as the machines whirred in the background. This was his domain, his kingdom, and he didn’t quite enjoy feeling unsettled in his own mill.

When he reached the landing, John took a steadying breath. His hands were shaking and he wasn’t sure why. Margaret had made it explicitly clear that she wanted nothing to do with him, so why he even thought it might be her was ridiculous. He was never one for frivolity--wishing on stars and bottling hopes up for rainy days were not something that John Thornton did.

But in this situation, he couldn’t seem to help himself.

He pushed the door open, letting it swing on its hinges before allowing himself to look inside. A woman was sitting in the chair opposite his desk--her back was to him, and he could see the back of her bonnet. Her slender shoulders were rising and falling with each breath, as if she, too, were nervous. He wanted to believe that it was someone else--perhaps Ann Latimer had called on him--but his soul knew exactly who was sitting in his office.

“Miss Hale,” he said. His voice sounded too big for the room, too loud, too deep.

Margaret practically jumped, and when she turned to face him, John felt the same warmth he had felt from the sun. He had resigned himself to the fact that he may never lay eyes on Margaret Hale again, but seeing her this close to him, her eyes sparkling and her lips slightly parted, was something he wanted to gorge on until he was drunk.

“Mr. Thornton,” she breathed, standing up. He noticed that a small, leatherbound book was in her hand, and his heart sank at the sight.

“What do I owe this honor?” John said, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets and making his way around his desk. He watched Margaret turn and follow him, like a sunflower following the sun. She was beautiful, and John hated himself for thinking it. He nodded towards the book in Margaret’s hands and said, “Is that from your father?”

Margaret looked down to where the book was clasped in her hands, and then looked back up to lock eyes with him. She shook her head, bringing the book up to her chest. 

“No, sir, it’s not from my father. I’ve come here to discuss...our situation.”

John felt his heart stop. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he gestured for her to take a seat as he sank down into his own chair.

“Mr. Thornton, please let me begin by apologizing. I am embarrassed by my actions and words to you. You bared your soul to me, cared for me when I was injured, and I was unforgivably rude. Before I can continue, I need to know that you accept my apology. I do not blame you if you do not, but please know that it is sincere.”

John dragged a hand across his chin, looking down at the desk in front of him. 

“May I be frank?” he said, folding his hands and looking across his desk at her.

“Of course.”

“There have been very few instances in my life where I’ve been affected. My father dying, the mill burning, those come to mind easily. I never thought myself an emotional man, Miss Hale, but I would be lying to you if I said I haven’t been quite upset by the ordeal.”

“I meant no harm by my actions, truly.”

“I’m aware of that now, but if we’re being honest with one another, just know that I was not expecting that kind of reaction from you. I know I’m not the most desirable of men--”

Here, Margaret cut him off. 

“Oh, Mr. Thornton, please don’t think that of yourself! I have given a ridiculously flawed example of how I actually feel about you. I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past few days, and that’s why I’m here now. I wanted to speak to you.”

John watched her closely as she brought the book down from her chest and placed it on the desk in front of him. He could see scraps of ribbon sticking out at different lengths, all different colors and patterns. It looked well-worn, as if she’d had it for a very long time.

“Mr. Thornton, if we truly are what you say we are, I’d like to ask you a few questions.” Here, she paused, placing her hand down on the worn cover of the book. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve kept track of every soulmark that has crossed my skin. I’ve even written down the ones that my mother told me of, before I knew how to write. If you aren’t opposed, I’d like to...go over them with you. I want a better understanding of who you are.”

If John had a looser grip on his emotions, he was sure he would’ve leapt out of his seat with joy. But the rational part of him only allowed a small, sincere smile in Margaret’s direction. He could see a bit of the tension leave her body as she returned the sentiment, and John thought his heart would burst.

“Excuse me a moment,” he said, pushing back from the desk. “Before we can go on, I must retrieve something.”

Without waiting for a reply, John left his office and quickly made his way across the yard. Once back in the house, he took the stairs two at a time until he was in his chambers, lifting the mattress and pulling out his own notes in their heavily-handled leather file. Without a second thought, he tucked it under his arm and made his way back through the house. He didn’t even stop when he heard his mother call out for him.

John wasn’t sure if he ran, but the time it took to get across the yard seemed exceedingly quick. He once again took the stairs in leaps and bounds, and when he entered the office, he was out of breath and disheveled. With a shaky hand, he tried to make himself presentable by tugging at his cravat and running his fingers through his mussed hair.

“I thought you might have been trying to teach me a lesson,” Margaret said with a smirk. She was still in her seat, perched on the edge of the chair as if she wasn’t sure if she should stay or go. As John made his way around his desk, he watched as Margaret slid further back in the chair, settling herself against its back. 

“I’m not that cruel,” John responded, smirking at her as he took a seat behind his desk.

“You’re not cruel at all, Mr. Thornton,” Margaret said softly, her large eyes warm and fixed on his.

“A few months ago I think you would’ve begged to differ,” John responded, laying his file onto his desk.

“Please, sir, I was very naive. I did not come here to bring up my past actions, but if that’s what we must do to move forward, I am willing to hear your thoughts.”

John watched her from behind the spanse of his desktop. It was rare that he saw this side of her--she often found so much fault with him that he didn’t think it possible to meet somewhere in the middle. Perhaps she really did have a change of heart.

“No, Miss Hale, a visit to the past doesn’t seem necessary. What happened, happened. I have moved on, and I assume you have as well.”

Margaret nodded at this. 

“Very well, then. I am very intrigued by what you’ve brought with you,” John continued, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. “I, too, would like some confirmation about our situation, so I am hopeful that this will clear up any hesitations.”

Margaret took a steadying breath, pushing herself back to the edge of the seat as she opened the book in front of her. From across his desk, John could see rows and rows of perfect penmanship, with flawless sketches of different florals in the margins. 

“Well, as I said, I have taken great care in writing down all of the soulmarks that have crossed my skin. It started out when I was about ten years old--I had to go back and make note of the ones that I had missed in my younger years--and it just became a habit.” Here, she paused, the most sincere of smiles crossing her lips. “If you truly are my soulmate, Mr. Thornton, you’re awfully accident prone.” 

John laughed at this, low and reserved in his chest.  “I cannot deny that sometimes my body doesn’t catch up to my brain as quickly as I’d like. What particular soulmarks were you interested in?”

Margaret flipped through the pages of her book, finally settling on one near the middle of the spine.

“The first I’d like to ask you about is from a few years ago. I was fifteen at the time, and preparing to attend a party held by my Aunt Shaw. I was so excited, for it was my first foray into London society, but I had to refrain from attending. Earlier in the day, a soulmark appeared on my forearm that couldn’t be covered by the dress I had chosen to wear. Rhododendrons covered my hand all the way up to my elbow, and I remember being so angry at whoever had caused my misfortune. In my youth, I was more concerned with the fact that I couldn’t attend the party, not that my soulmate had managed to heavily injure themselves. You brought this particular soulmark up when you first mentioned our bond, and seeing as I’m much more forgiving in hindsight, I was curious as to what happened.”

John flexed his right hand, the memory sharp and frightening in his mind. 

“It was a broken arm. I had been trying to fix one of the machines in the mill...it was late, far later than I should have been in the mill, but I knew it had to be done. I had sent most of the workers home so that they could break bread with their families. I knew my own mother was going to throw a fit about me being late, but I had a job to do and I knew that I couldn’t go home until it was finished. I stuck my hand into the machine at the wrong angle, and it managed to suck my arm in, mangling me pretty badly. Luckily there was one man lingering on the floor, and he managed to pull me out. I had to wear a plaster cast from my fingertips to my elbow for near two months.”

“Oh, Mr. Thornton. That’s awful,” Margaret breathed. John didn’t miss the quick glance she gave down towards his hand that was splayed against the mahogany desktop. She looked as if she wanted to scoop it up in her own hands, and John felt something tighten in his chest.

“I apologize for the inconvenience it caused you,” he said, bringing the hand back into his lap to avoid any chances of impropriety.

At this Margaret laughed, not in an amused manner, but in disbelief. “Please don’t apologize, sir! It is I who should apologize to you! I was so angry at you for the inconvenience it caused me, angry at the fact that I had to hole myself up in my aunt’s apartments for two months, when in reality I should have been far more concerned for your safety!”

“Miss Hale,” John said with a smile, “all is well now. No apology is necessary. We didn’t even know each other at the time.”

“I wish that we had,” Margaret said, her eyes widening at the realization of what she had just said. 

John cleared his throat, wanting desperately to agree with her, but keeping himself subdued. 

“What others are you curious about?” he said instead. “I am an open book.”

He watched as she fumbled with the pages of her notebook, flipping towards the front cover. She landed on a page where a large, vibrant echinacea was sketched onto the paper.

“About ten years ago, one of these covered my eye. It was from the top of my eyebrow all the way to the swell of my cheek. I was only nine at the time, and was more embarrassed by having to stay indoors than the mark itself, but I’ve often thought about it in past years.”

John blushed. He wasn’t proud of this particular story, but he had told her that he was an open book. There was no use lying about the matter--he was sure that her soul would know if he lied.

“I assume it was when Slickson punched me,” he said, letting the confession linger in the air.

“He struck you?” Margaret gasped. 

“To be fair, I hit him first. He said some rather unsavory things about my mother, and my temper got the better of me.”

The response from Margaret wasn’t one he expected--a smile crossed her face that was the largest and most heartfelt he had seen from her. It crinkled the corners of her eyes and stretched across her face. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“You’re a very loyal man, Mr. Thornton,” she said, the smile still lighting up her face.

“And you, Miss Hale, have had quite the change of heart.”

Margaret’s smile softened at these words, and she looked down at her lap.

“You are not wrong,” she murmured, fiddling with her hands that lay on the linen of her skirts. “As I previously stated, I have done much reflecting these past few days.”

An awkward silence hung in the air, neither party making eye contact with the other. John felt like he was going to crawl out of his own skin. The room felt too small, too stifled. Margaret was still picking at her cuticles, rearranging the pleats of her dress, refusing to look in his direction. John’s file folder still lay on the desk in front of him, a few mere inches from the book that Margaret had brought to him. 

“Miss Hale?” John said, finally breaking the silence. “May I ask you a few questions of my own?” He reached out and tapped on the file.

Margaret looked up, her eyes wide and mouth slightly ajar. John couldn’t help staring at the fullness of her lips for a second longer than was appropriate.

“Questions?” Margaret said, sitting up straighter.

“Yes,” John replied, pulling the file towards him. “You see, you’re not the only one who’s taken note of their soulmarks through the years. Seeing as I’m a bit older than you, I remember my first quite vividly, and it nearly scared the pants off of me.”

Margaret laughed at this.

“It seems we are more alike than I thought,” she said. “You may ask me any questions you’d like. Although you’ve piqued my interest about your first soulmark..”

“Now, no harsh judgment of my notes. They aren’t half as organized as yours, and I’m far from accomplished when it comes to drawing.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Good,” he said, pulling the file towards him. He opened the flap and rifled through it, finally extracting the oldest piece of parchment that was inside. The ungainly scrawl of his childhood crossed the page, the memory of seeing those yellow roses on his kneecaps still as vivid in his memory as the day they happened. 

Instead of reading it aloud, John put the paper on the desk and pushed it towards Margaret with his fingertips.

“I think allowing you to read it would be more effective than if I simply relayed the terror I felt.”

Margaret nodded, gently taking the paper from him. He watched as she started to read, her lips motionless as her eyes darted back and forth. The sight made him feel self-aware in a way that he never experienced before. He was curious which part she was on--he had the entry memorized by heart, his late-night reminiscing etching it into his brain like a Rembrandt painting.

_ I had the most fritening thing happen to me today. I was minding my own biznis in my chambers when two yellow flowers suddenly appeared on my knees. I was so scared! I called for Mama and she came running (I have never seen her move so fast). The site of the flowers made my stumach hurt and I tried not to cry. Mama told me not to worry. She said they were “soulmarks”. I don’t quite like the idea of soulmarks. I want to explore and accomplish many great things. I do not need someone holding me back!  _

John could see Margaret reaching the end of the page, and the unfamiliar flush of his cheeks rushed back. Margaret finished reading and slowly looked up and over the edge of the paper. Her eyes were slightly wet, unshed, barely visible tears lining her eyes.

“As I said, I wasn’t the most eloquent of children,” John said sheepishly.

“Oh, Mr. Thornton,” she breathed. “I am so ashamed of how I treated you. This has given me the proof that I need.”

John rearranged himself in the seat, crossing his legs once more and gripping the arms of his chair to steady himself.

“What do you mean, Miss Hale?”

“The first soulmark you received were yellow roses, were they not?”

John remembered the canary-colored roses that had covered his scrawny kneecaps. He hadn’t known at the time what kind of flower they were, but he eventually figured it out. One of the first things he purchased with his money from the draper’s was a book about flora--it was what he referenced whenever a new mark covered his skin.

“They were, yes,” he replied.

“Mr. Thornton, the yellow roses of Helstone are something that is deeply meaningful to me. You know my love for the south, albeit a bit more zealous than is tolerable, and one of the biggest reasons for that is the roses that grew on my father’s property. The memories I have of them are some of the best, and it is very telling that the first soulmark you received were the very same roses.”

John’s throat had gone dry. He knew deep down that Margaret was his soulmate, but her unsuredness was enough to make him question himself. He wasn’t going to cling to him about the topic until she was completely and utterly convinced of it.

“And you, Miss Hale? What were your first soulmarks?”

The unshed tears in Margaret’s eyes started to well, and John watched as one stoically slid down her cheek.

“You shan’t believe it.”

“Please, Miss Hale, tell me.”

Using her fingertips, Margaret wiped the tear from her cheek. “I was born with my soulmarks, Mr. Thornton. I don’t remember them at all, but my mother has retold the story throughout my life enough times that I swear I could see them if I closed my eyes and truly tried.” Here, she put out one of her hands, palm up on the desk. “I was born, you see, with a soulmark covering the palm of this hand, the darkest part of it on my fingertips. I can’t believe I never made this connection before, Mr. Thornton, but it really is amazing.”

“What’s amazing, Miss Hale?” John’s voice was a murmur, the sound of it alien to his ears.

“The mark on my palm was a cotton blossom.”

At this, Margaret cried openly. A ragged sob escaped her throat as she frantically searched her person for a handkerchief. John could only stare at her in awe, unable to speak or move. He watched in silence as she wiped the tears from her face, blotting her cheeks with the cloth in her hand. 

“Please, excuse me,” Margaret whispered, taking a steadying breath before placing the handkerchief on her lap. John still couldn’t speak, not trusting himself that he wouldn’t do the same exact thing as she if he opened his mouth. “Mr. Thornton?” 

John blinked, realizing that she was looking for a response to her statement. He swallowed the lump in his throat, coughing to try and compose himself. He was sure if he looked down at his hands, the knuckles would be white against the arms of the chair. Slowly letting his fingers go limp, John allowed himself to look across the desk, Margaret’s open and honest face staring at him.

“Miss Hale, would you agree with me that a reintroduction is in order?” 

Margaret looked at him in confusion, a pout parting the bow of her lips. 

“A reintroduction?”

At this, John stood and made his way around the desk. He stood in front of Margaret, and gently took her gloved hand in his own. He willed her to stand, and she graciously rose to meet his eyes. They stood in the middle of John’s small, stifled office, their hands clasped between them in an awkward handshake of sorts. 

“Hello,” he said, staring down at Margaret’s liquid brown eyes, her cheeks the color of sticky taffy. “My name is John, and I believe I’m your soulmate.”

Realization dawned across Margaret’s features, and John could feel the slightest change of pressure between their hands. He watched in slow motion as Margaret brought the palm of his hand up to her mouth, and he felt the warm heat of her lips against his skin before he truly realized what was happening. She pressed a kiss there, the same place he had burned himself those nineteen years prior on the kitchen stove. He had just been ten, cocky and sure of himself, challenging his mother who had told him not to do it. He still remembered the searing pain it had caused, the howl that had left his body as his skin screamed with him.

This was a far different sensation. The warmth of her lips outshone the sun. 

“Hello, John. My name is Margaret,” she murmured against his palm, her eyes peering over his fingertips. “I’m very glad to finally meet you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one chapter to gooooo! thank you for all the kind words--they mean so much!


	6. lavender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all ready for some fluff? i hope so, because this is f l u f f y.
> 
> also, shout out to darkpartofmydestiny--their headcanon that john calls margaret "maggie" has stayed with me since i first read it, and i loved it so much that i had to write it into this. i hope that's ok! <3 
> 
> thank you so much for joining me on this ride and for all of your lovely comments! i've loved writing this <3

As Margaret awoke, she could feel the warm, heavy weight of her husband against her back. She smiled, used to the feeling of him curled around her as he snored gently into her hair. A year ago, on the morning after their wedding, the sensation had been thrilling, something she had never experienced before. Now, though, it was as familiar as her own heartbeat. 

As John’s steady breathing warmed her neck, Margaret thought back fondly on their first night together. Their coupling had been tender, hands exploring the skin that knew the other before they had even met. Margaret could still remember the way her body ricocheted from pain to pleasure as John brought her to climax, her body going taut like a bowstring before going limp with satisfaction. John had tumbled over the edge right after her, a noise coming from deep in his chest that she had never heard before. She could still hear his love-drunk mumbling into her hair as he caught his breath, whispers of  _ you are absolutely stunning _ and  _ my god, Maggie. _

_ Maggie _ . He had started calling her that shortly after they announced their engagement. No one had ever called her Maggie before, not even her family, but it felt so right coming from his lips. Maybe it was the tug of his soul on her heart, or maybe it was just the way it sounded in his rough, northern accent. Either way, it made something warm and contented bob inside of her, like a sun washed boat on the sea. 

John’s arm was now draped over her waist, his large hand limp atop the swell of her stomach. She was quickly approaching the final months of her pregnancy, and the thought that a baby would be joining them so soon both thrilled and frightened her. Many nights of lovemaking happened after the first--the two of them seemed incapable of keeping their hands off the other--and Margaret couldn’t pinpoint exactly when she conceived. The realization of being with child was almost as emotional as seeing John’s face when she told him. 

She knew he was going to be a wonderful father, even with all of his worries. They spent many nights lying in the darkness, their hands tangled together between them as they soothed each other's fears. Some nights it was Margaret fretting about the health of the baby. Other nights it was John softly worrying about whether or not he’d be a better father than his own. It was on these nights that Margaret turned towards her husband, bringing their intertwined knuckles up to her lips before gently caressing John’s face.

“John Thornton, you’re going to be the best father. I can feel it in my heart.”

Sometimes it was enough. Sometimes Margaret could still feel the anxiety rolling off of him in waves. Either way, she’d nestle herself against him, placing his hand atop the vessel that held their baby. She’d talk to him about what she was feeling, the small, infinitesimal movements that only a mother can feel, or they’d revel together in the big, booming kicks and slow, rolling movements of their baby beneath their palms. Eventually, Margaret would feel John’s breathing even out, and she’d kiss his brow before closing her eyes.

His breathing now was slow and steady, a comforting pace against the back of her neck. It still made her laugh how her first opinions of him were different from the man he actually was. The man she thought of as cold and domineering was actually quite sweet. She remembered waking up in his bed for the first time, slightly alarmed at how he had draped himself over her. He was like a large housecat, seeking out warmth and comfort, nuzzling into her hair and practically purring with content. 

Not much had changed. John still sought her out during sleep, and she often woke up tangled up with him. On this morning, the sweltering July heat was starting to seep in through the paned windows, and Margaret could feel a small bead of sweat meander down the small of her back. Being alone in the house, her and John had taken to sleeping in the nude, her night sweats being unbearable for them both. As the summer crept on, the need for little to no barrier between their skin and the air was paramount. She shifted against John, feeling the brush of his chest hair against her back. 

The movement caused John to stir, and she felt him slowly stretch his legs and back behind her. Heaving herself over, Margaret managed to turn herself in his arms, fondly watching his sleep-creased face begin to wake up. She felt his hand once again settle on her stomach, the long, square fingers splaying out against her taut skin. John gave a bleary blink, his eyebrows arching up towards the unruly thatch of black hair that sat atop his head. He looked so different in the morning compared to his put-together appearance during the day. 

Sleep mussed John was Margaret’s favorite.

“Up before me, are you?” he said, turning his head towards her. “The end of the world must be nigh.”

“Oh, hush,” she said, pillowing her head on his shoulder. “The heat woke me up. It’s unbearable.” 

John let out a groan of agreement, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. He yawned, settling back against the pillows and pulling her in just a little more closely.

“Hopefully you can bear being this close to me?” he said, the lilt in his voice teasing her.

“Mmm,” Margaret hummed. “I will be fine. I’m not so sure about this one.” She gestured towards her belly, the swell of it wedged between them. 

“Now, now, little one,” John said. “Give your mother and I a few minutes.” His voice was sleep rough, vibrating through Margaret like a freight train. She watched his hand walk slowly over her stomach, his fingertips brushing against her belly button before laying flat against her. “You’ll have our full attention once you’re here.” 

As if the baby could hear him, Margaret felt a strong kick against her rib cage. John laughed, running his hand along her skin to settle where the baby had just been seconds before. There wasn’t another jab, but John was persistent in his attempts to feel the child’s movement himself.

Margaret watched him lovingly, her eyes hungrily drinking in the sight of her husband. He was all muscle and sinew, strength without bulk. His muscles flexed as he continued to explore Margaret’s skin, the early morning sunlight catching the contours of his arms and throwing them in sharp relief. She remembered seeing him shirtless for the first time, startled by how much hair covered his chest. She loved it now, the sight of it softened by her ever-growing love for him. Her eyes continued down his body, settling on the spanse of his stomach.

From hip to hip, in a uniformed pattern, were sprigs of lavender. They were vibrant purple, curved gently towards his belly button on both sides of his stomach. She remembered when they first appeared, mortified that she had caused them to blossom across his skin. She knew that her skin would stretch, but she hadn’t realized that it would cause any type of scarring. It was bad enough having to see her own marks slowly grow and stretch on her own stomach--it was almost worse knowing that John would have markings, too.

“They probably won’t completely go away,” she now whispered, her hand ghosting up and down John’s forearm as she stared at his stomach. 

“What won’t?” he said, his eyes and hand still resolutely drawn to the swell of her bump.

“The marks on you,” she said, reaching out a finger to gently trace the length of one.

John stopped his ministrations, lifting himself up on one arm to look down at her. He took his free hand, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear before dropping down to kiss her. The kiss was soft, gentle. Margaret leaned into it.

“Mrs. Thornton,” John breathed as the kiss broke apart. “Don’t you know by now that I don’t care? I don’t care about the marks on your stomach or the marks on mine.”

Margaret felt her throat tighten at this. She didn’t want to admit it out loud, but as the pregnancy progressed, she started to resent how her body was starting to look. Some days she was overjoyed by the change, others made her want to cry. Apparently this morning was a weepy one.

“Are you sure?” she whispered, desperately trying to swallow down the tears that were starting to well in her eyes.

“Margaret, these marks are the greatest gift I’ve ever been given. They’re proof that I’m bound to you, and that our love has created something new. How could you ever think that I’d hate them?”

Margaret sniffed. “I don’t know...maybe because I hate mine?”

John laughed at this, a soft exhalation of air from behind his smile. 

“Margaret Thornton, you are just as bit as perfect as the first day that I laid eyes on you. Nothing can change that.”

To prove his point, he leaned over and placed a reverent kiss on the roundest part of her stomach. Both hands were splayed on either side of his face, and Margaret couldn’t help feeling the urgent need to have this baby earthside, just to see it held in her husband’s arms. 

“Do you think they’ll have a soulmate?” Margaret now whispered, her own hand coming up to cover John’s.

“Who, the babe?”

“Yes.”

John scooted back towards the headboard, wrapping a long arm around Margaret’s shoulders and pulling her towards him. She nestled into him. 

“I would hope that they do. It isn’t the end of the world if they don’t, but we both know how nice it is to have someone out there.”

Margaret nodded against him. They lay in silence for a few minutes, the early morning sun washing the room in brighter and brighter light as the time passed. She knew John would have to get up soon, don his clothes, and head to the mill. She propped herself back against the headboard, the heave of her body jolting John from his sleepy position.

“Are you well?” he asked, turning his face to look her in the eye.

Margaret nodded. “Laying in one position for too long becomes uncomfortable. I just needed to move.”

She could tell that John was still watching her closely, and she felt herself squirm under his scrutiny.

“What are you staring so intently at?” she asked, a breath of nervous laughter escaping her lips.

“Your freckles,” he replied, bringing a long finger up to her cheek. She felt him brush the pad of it across her cheekbone, the cool tips of his fingers nestling into the crook of her neck. “They’re so...sweet.”

Margaret laughed openly at this. It never ceased to amaze her how her husband could take the things she was most self-conscious about and make them feel beautiful.

“Just be happy they don’t show up on you,” she replied, lacing her fingers with his. “Imagine how silly you’d look, walking around Milton with little dandelion fronds smattering your face.”

It was John’s turn to laugh, that silent, wide-grinned smile that Margaret fell in love with every time she saw it. In lieu of a response, John simply brought their hands up to his mouth, pressing soft, reverent kisses along her knuckles and the back of her hand. The sensation made her laugh, and John took the opportunity to bury his face into her neck, peppering her skin with the same featherlight attention that he had given her hand. Margaret, breathless with laughter, tried to get him to stop. He emerged from her tangle of hair looking disheveled and blissfully happy.

“I have to start getting ready,” he murmured, bending down to press a kiss to her cheek.

“I was wondering when you’d realize,” Margaret replied. “It must be near seven!”

John hummed in agreement, slipping out from underneath the single sheet. Margaret watched in hungry appreciation as he stretched, the round, starkness of his buttocks flexing in the morning light. Her eyes didn’t leave her husband’s figure as he crossed the room and entered the dressing room. She could hear him rummaging around, the clatter of the soap brush against the basin, the scrape of the razor across his morning stubble. 

“I was thinking I could bring you lunch today,” she called out. 

John poked his head out from the doorframe. He was still naked, with only his face covered in a thick layer of shaving soap. 

“Are you sure you can handle the heat in the mill?” he replied, looking at her concernedly. 

“I’ll try,” she said, giving him a smile. “We don’t have much time left with just the two of us. I’d like to savor what little moments we have left.”

John gave her a smile and a nod before disappearing back into the dressing room. 

“If that’s what you want, love, then by all means,” his voice said. 

Margaret smiled to herself, resting back on the pillows. She traced the path that John’s fingers had created across her belly, the barely discernible ridges of her markings rough beneath her fingers. There were so many days where her mother’s words rang out to her-- _ In my own experience, the person who is your soulmate is someone you wouldn’t expect, but the signs are all there _ \--especially in the moments where she felt like her heart would burst with love. John wasn’t exactly what she had expected from a soulmate, but in reality, he turned out to be exactly what she needed. He was protective, forthright, willing to listen but also to question. He made her feel like royalty, his attentions never ceasing in their sincerity or magnitude. She still reveled in the way their bodies seemed to hum in time together, two perfectly greased cogs in the workings of the universe.

Beneath her palm, the baby now kicked, jolting Margaret from her thoughts. She smiled as she rubbed the flat of her palm across the stretch of her stomach, a lump forming in her throat at the thought that this baby was the culmination of their love for each other. It was almost too good to be true.

“I’ll send Dixon up after breakfast, yes?” John said, stepping out of the dressing room. He was in his shirt sleeves and trousers, shoes hanging from his fingers. He hadn’t bothered yet with his cravat or his waistcoat, the heat in the room creeping to stifling levels. 

“Please,” Margaret replied. “I just need a few more moments to lie in.” 

John smiled and nodded, silently acknowledging how Margaret was the antithesis of a morning person. He perched himself on the foot of the bed, stretching his long legs out in front of him before bending down to lace up his shoes.

Overcome with love for her husband, Margaret shuffled down the mattress to where John sat, tucking her arms beneath his so she could wrap her arms around his chest from behind and perch her chin on his shoulder.

“Well, hello there,” he murmured. Margaret could feel his smile against her own cheek.

“I love you very much,” Margaret said, squeezing him. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

John stopped unlacing his boot, dropping it on the floor to allow him the chance to turn in Margaret’s arms and face her. He kissed her sweetly, the taste of his shaving soap still on his upper lip. Margaret brought her hands up to his face, her fingers sliding down his freshly shaved skin. 

“I think it’s I who should be thanking you,” he said. “I still can’t believe you’re here most days.”

“Well, Mr. Thornton, I have no intention of leaving, so you’d better get used to seeing me here.”

“The cheek on you, Maggie...” he said, trailing off to cover her mouth with his own again. 

Margaret Thornton was happy. Perhaps the happiest she ever had been. She no longer had to wonder when her soulmate would find her, or if she’d ever stumble upon them. The years and years of keeping notes on her marks were now stashed away in their library, tucked in a bookshelf alongside her husband’s leather file. Neither had needed to take them out and inscribe something new--their souls knew, indefinitely, where and when the other was. It was no longer a secret, and Margaret was overjoyed at the chance to call John her own. 

  
  



End file.
